Purity
by BABYHi.P.RON.STAR
Summary: AU, Post DH. Harry joins Voldemort as evil co ruler of the Wizarding World, and during Sabbatical, discovers the elusive blond teenager that fled years before. DARK, HPDM.
1. Chapter 1

He's waiting for the day when he gets me,

But I won't be your concubine - I'm a puppet not a whore.

I just need this stage to be seen.

Won't you be a friend of mine to remind me what is real?

Hold my heart and see that it bleeds.

-James Blunt

So Barcelona and Milan were just as splendid as he'd expected they'd be, although most of Harry Potter's travels were for the purpose of capturing the remaining Death Eaters from the war. He'd been so many places and seen so many people, and by the time he was twenty, he already needed to leave on Sabbatical so he could clear his head from all the demented things he had experienced. Paris was the perfect spot, he supposed, because it embodied a sort of glamorous comfort that he desired, and because the small amount of time he actually had spent there only made him want to stay there longer.

He, as being on Sabbatical has it, told no one where he was going. He also had the suspicion that he would be staying in Paris for awhile, so he rented an apartment above an amateur actors theater. To come and go, he had to cross the back stage area and use a wobbly staircase. To him, it was awesome, just being in a simple place where he could sit on the steps and look on below at the actors getting dressed, made up, and rehearsing. He didn't know much about the particular production the theater was sponsoring, except that the show made use of a live choir. In his first lonesome days in Paris, Harry sat next to his apartment door and listened to the rising voices, revolving in a canon style. The voices still kept singing after his lonesome days passed. Now, he was truly ready to explore Paris, so he took in the ghostly sounds of the choir before descending the stairs, crossing behind the singers themselves, and exiting through the side door that only the actors, crew, and himself were allowed to use.

Once in the streets, he took in the Autumn air. The city was nippy, but everywhere he looked, Muggles were grouped together along the strip and talking, smiling, shopping. To his left and right there were boutiques, shops and cafes. Harry walked until his eyes fell on a quaint little fortune-teller's shop, and truth be told, he was pretty sure that he was the only one who could see it. "'Allo!" called a voice from the back of the shop, secluded by a beaded curtain, and when a young man, probably Harry's age, came out, Harry was relieved that the fortune teller wasn't someone like Trelawny. Nervously, he shifted himself further into the store.

"Hey," Harry started, "sorry, I don't speak French."

"Oh, " was the reply, in English, "then why come to Paris?"

Harry's face showed some agitation, "I'm learning. I just moved here."

"Oh," the man repeated, "well then are you here for a reading, or are you here to get to the wizard side of Paris?" He asked as if it was as ordinary a question as inquiring about the weather.

Harry looked around the shop, eyeing all it's cliche decorations. There was a beaded curtain in the far side of the room, that hung over another, smaller room. "Um, how about a raincheck on that reading?" He suggested.

The other man nodded, then shrugged. Harry followed him beyond the beaded curtain and to a small door in the wall. "Just go through here," the man said, and Harry, having felt like he had just seen the man beside him for the first time, looked him up an down. He was average-sized, had messy brown hair, and a pleasantness to him that was reminiscent of the Weasley twins. Harry grinned, bade farewell, and walked through the door that separated the Muggle world from the Wizarding one.

I may have been found, but I'm lost again.

Harry shot upright in his bed, cold sweat tingling on the nape of his neck. Here he was again, in his bed, dreaming of Paris. Why? What was in Paris? Nothing, he was quite sure of that. He had indeed been there before, during winter, and it was nothing as spectacular as he had assumed it would be. Just the cliche things. There was the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Elysees, but oh well, nothing special for sure. Somewhere in his mind, though, he knew that he was waiting for whatever was behind that door in the psychic's shop. It was calling to him on a very subconscious level that made itself known in his dreams. Something about Paris...

Fuck it if his dreams were going to get the best of him. He had been stupid enough to be bothered by them as a kid, and where did it land him? With a dead Sirius, that's where. Harry swung his legs over the regal bed that stood in the middle of his chambers. He yawned, then called out for Dolohov, who stood guard outside the room.

Dolohov emerged and bowed with an exaggerated sense of servitude, "Yes, my lord?"

Harry snorted. No matter how many times he was called that by the Death Eaters it was still annoying to hear. "Can you get Snape to make something to stop my dreaming? That damn Paris dream again..."

Dolohov lowered his eyes, he was, after all, pissed to have both Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort as his masters. But he nodded solemnly after giving Harry a glare. He left.

Harry sighed and began getting up for the day. He went to the washroom, which was large and elegant, and full of opulence that'd put Draco Malfoy to shame. Malfoy... Harry hadn't thought about him for awhile now. As he rubbed his face with a soft washcloth, he reflected on the blonde. That annoying little git. Well, it was a good thing that he had escaped from Voldemort before Harry took over the operation by using his powers to control the Dark Lord. If Voldemort really believed that there was nothing worse than death, he was wrong. Sharing the throne of the world was worse, especially since Harry had the most power out of the couple, and it was his ruling that kept the world not only Dark, but in order. Voldemort, of course thought that there could be no compromise between the two, but Harry was just as deliciously evil as he was diplomatic. He knew that even if Darkness took over there would need to be order. If not, everything would just be a gigantic massacre.

So if anything, Harry was the nicest evilest ruler of the Wizarding world anyone had had the (mis)fortune to cross. But just because he was nice didn't mean that he wouldn't kill Malfoy on the spot if he got the chance. Draco was just uber lucky that he escaped when he did. When Harry left his chambers, he mused at how the once arrogant boy on his mind was nothing but a blip on the radar now.

His padded footsteps were alerting the Death Eaters of his presence, and when Harry went to the foyer to get his coat to leave, he was surprised when Nott stepped up and helped him put the garment on. Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm not a prince, you can stop that." Around him was a congregation of six or so Death Eaters, lapping at his heels like bitches in heat.

Nott looked horrified, probably expecting Harry to hex him down right then, "Sorry, my lord, it won't happen again, I can assure you."

Harry rolled his eyes again. "Whatever. Is Tom awake yet?"

The Death Eaters looked pissed, all of them making that one face they did when Harry called their lord "Tom." But after an extremely awkward silence, which earned them Harry's wrath, one spoke up. "Yes, my lord, he is still weak though, and resting in his chambers."

"Good! Was that so fucking hard? Hmm, I heard this great joke- How many Death Eaters does it take to answer a fucking question?"

Pause.

"See, that's the answer, isn't it? Why I keep all you shit bags alive is beyond me. Oh, wait, it's because you _sometimes _make good servants. At least you don't smell like a house elf, you lot. But you're just as useless."

Maybe Harry didn't know how hated he was in the mansion he was exiting, or maybe he just didn't care. Either way, there was mutiny underfoot.

London's streets were dull this day, and London was were Harry was. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and enjoyed the company of Muggle strangers. At least they didn't part to make his way like the Wizards did. So much dramatics, he swore. And that was when he heard it, clear as day, two girls talking, "I saw his play in Paris. He's really talented, you know?"

The other responded gleefully, "Yup, and that Blaise Zabini writes the best shit! All his plays are really deep!" she squealed. Wait, what? Blaise... Zabini? _That_ Blaise Zabini? Shit, as if there were other Blaise Zabinis.

"But-" the first girl started, increasing her pitch and looking particularly rumpled, as if she might die if she didn't defend her cause, " Draco is the talent."

Harry didn't need to hear anymore. So Blaise and Draco were hiding in Paris? And not very well, apparently, as they seemingly decided it would be fun if they promoted their witness-protection-program statuses by revealing themselves to the public. Real. Fucking. Stupid.

And Harry's alluring dream suddenly meant so much sense. Part of it anyway. That illustrious thing in Paris calling to him was... Draco. That's why he couldn't stop thinking about him all day

He made up his mind. He was going back to Paris. He was going to see one of these plays, check to see if there was indeed an apartment over the theater, rent it, and move in for the kill. He would be sly about it though. He wanted to get that asshole back for his behavior during school. And Harry was pretty sure that Malfoy hadn't changed during the last couple of years. After all the death, after the reform of the Death Eaters and the commencing of Harry's ruling, Draco was just lucky to be alive. But nooo, the smug blonde thought it would be just so damned cute if he became an actor, did he? Harry couldn't wait to kill him. He hated him, hated him, hated him!!!

Somewhere inside, Harry denied that fact that he was jealous that Draco so seemingly shrugged off the world's drama and went on with his own life. Harry was not jealous. Why would he be? Draco was such a fucking coward.

Harry lit up a cigarette, took a quick drag, then went into some alleyway so he could Apparate to Paris.

And it was so unlike London at this time. It was bright and energetic, and for a mili-second Harry forgot his mission. Ah, yes, find Draco, befriend him, yes, make him believe there was sincerity in his words, bring him to the conclusion that his world would be empty without perfect Harry Potter, then take it away from him! Kill him. Torture him! Wipe that smug look off his pretty face! Pretty? Ugly. Yes. Draco Malfoy was certainly not pretty. Boys just weren't.

Ha. Harry thought as he made his way up to a strip of amateur actor theaters. Harry was smart enough to know that Draco wouldn't be working in a high class one or anything. The dream said as much. And shit, this was his lucky day, because right in front of him, wearing Bohemian clothing, including newspaper boy shorts, was the young man in question. Draco was standing outside a theater to the left of the one Harry was approaching. And, fuck, he was so so pretty. Shit, he was a hypocrite now. Pale and short and fucking innocent looking! Good! New mission, rid the world of another beautiful thing. Harry inwardly laughed. He was good at that.

He sucked in a breath and headed towards the blonde, his evil interior dying behind his expression of mild surprise as he said," Malfoy? Draco Malfoy? Is that you? I haven't seen you in forever."

Bingo.


	2. Chapter 2

I think I'm drowning

asphyxiating

I wanna break the spell

that you've created

you're something beautiful

a contradiction

I wanna play the game

I want the friction

you will be

the death of me

yeah, you will be

the death of me

-Muse

The blonde swiveled on his heel, and turned to face the voice that had just addressed him. All his unsettling thoughts came true as he saw Harry Potter gazing at him from behind cloudy eyes. _That_ Harry Potter. The Dark co-ruler of the Wizarding world. The one that led the Death Eaters and killed anyone that crossed him. And here he was, calm if not affable and easy going. He was even smiling a little, which made Draco crazy. It was working. The plan was in action.

"Um..." Draco looked around gloomily, as if plotting out a means for his escape. "Are you here to kill me?" He finished in a low whisper. Harry laughed.

"If I was, you'd be dead by now." His green eyes twinkled mischievously. Not evilly though. That'd give him away, and then there would be no torturous fun when he murdered the blonde. He continued after Malfoy made no attempt to say anything else. In fact, he seemed rather rooted to the spot by fear. Yes! "In London, a couple of ladies were talking about your plays. I didn't know you acted." He added.

Draco nodded, and slowly backed into the theater he was standing by. Behind him was a poster promoting a play called "Asile Cherchante." Harry noticed that a very glammed up Draco and Blaise Zabini decorated said poster. They looked like mere ghosts of their former selves, no longer the smug bitches that ruled the school with arrogance. They seemed like they had grown up and become adults. At least decent people. Too bad Harry didn't care enough to find it a redeeming quality. Draco still needed to die, no matter how buttercup-sweet he had managed to become in the last three years. It was all an act, after all, Draco was an actor, and he was banking on being sweet, huh? Harry was only convinced now, more than ever, that Malfoy was a selfish prick that was using his new image only to save his ass.

"Well, are you any good?"

"Umm... Some people think so."

"But you don't? Aww, Malfoy, that isn't like you at all. Why are you down-playing yourself?" Harry's voice was eery and sugary-laced-with-malice filled.

Draco might've died on the spot if Harry wasn't willing him to stay alive longer for the plan to set in. He smiled again at the petite blonde, and eyed his clothing. Yup. He was adorable in paperboy shorts, brown boots that went up to his knees, and a paperboy hat to match the rest of the getup.

"Mmm...I...I don't know what to say to you... should I bow, or something?"

Harry sighed inwardly. There would be a fight, yes indeed, he couldn't kill Malfoy if the man was too scared to be himself. He needed to ween him over the edge and bring back that snarkiness. Then smash it. Okay, so get the old 'Foy back, lead him on, kill him. Shit. Every second the mission was growing.

"No, you do not need to bow to me, Malfoy, we're old classmates. Anyway, I'm here to see a show of yours."

Draco seemed relieved, and a bit surprised. "Oh! Well the next one is at 9 p.m.tonight, at this theater-" he made a hand gesture to the one he was up against-"We're sold out, though. I can let you in the side door..." And there he stopped, because once the enthusiasm was gone, the fear returned.

Harry nodded. "Sure, Malfoy, I'll be expecting a good show, you know, based on what those people were saying..."

Malfoy got terrified. He was going to be judged by the Dark Lord! Harry rolled his eyes. "Relax, Draco-" he took delight in the cringe he elicited from the blonde by using his first name- "It's not like I'm gonna kill you if you mess up." And with a wink he let Draco know he'd be back at 9, then he Dissaparated, leaving his former school mate and enemy to fully comprehend the fact that he was tredding in the Devil's territory.

Draco rushed back into the theater in which he had just exited. He hadn't even had time to smoke the cigarette that he went outside for anyway. He couldn't think about anything. Harry Potter had just randomly approached him and... and... he was nice. That was mind-shattering, and Draco was sure that it wasn't good news.

Deep down, he was pretty sure that he would be murdered. He had, after all, betrayed the Dark side by escaping, and it didn't bode well that he ran away to Paris with Blaise to become indies actors. Nor was it good that they had become popular and were no longer indies, even if they still used the amateur actor's theater. They were just cheap now, since the War had claimed most of their fortunes, and they were both orphans now.

His body felt cold as he made his way across the back stage, trying both to look inconspicuous and calm. He hardly was succeeding, but was able to reach his vanity without any problems. People just let Draco Malfoy be. He was the Prince of the operation. Without him, Blaise wouldn't write or produce any more plays, and likewise, Draco fed from Blaise's work. They were each other's muse. The rest of the crew was smart enough not to meddle with this. That's not to say that Blaise and Draco were loners. On the contrary, they were part of a close knit group of friends, all Witches or Wizards, all who had suffered during the War, all who had found a home in Paris, a home in acting, and a home in each other. Such was the way with war; no one suffered alone, and no one needed to. Anyone could be forgiven in the aftermath of war. Draco and Blaise were not alone here either. This group of friends had all been changed and bettered.

This group included Reira, a Witch who had lost her husband in the War to the Dark side. She was tall, taller than both Draco and Blaise, had toppling wavy blonde hair that she pulled back in a style a la Audrey Hepburn. In their group, she was the mother figure, and in reality she was also a real mother, who had had her daughter taken away by The Ministry Of Magic after her husband died. Everyone shared in her pain when her daughter was adopted by Muggles, and everyone also agreed with her negative finding of the Ministry.

The group also contained Ferris and Jacques, Two men who were not related by blood, but were otherwise identical twins. They finished the other's sentences, had their own incomprehensible private jokes, and lived together in an apartment over the fortune-teller's shop that Ferris owned and also worked at when he wasn't acting. Jacques' father owned a hotel, and since his death, Jacques had received ownership. Although he had staff run things for him, the hotel was still very profitable on his behalf. They were truly acting for the love of it and not the money, which made them truly invaluable in Blaise's eyes.

Blaise had become someone of great dignity and eloquence over the years. He was distinguished and wore name brand designer's clothing, not caring if the label was Muggle. The time had come to put such silly prejudices aside, as they were all, both Wizards and Muggles, in the same shitty ship in Harry Potter's ocean. He was intelligent and fueled by his creativity. That's precisely why when he found Malfoy at his doorstep, in tears, those three years ago, he took him in and was overcome with the beauty that was Draco in tragedy. No longer selfish or pompous, he was just a scared kid who needed, thirsted for help. Blaise was all too happy to be that help. That tragic beauty inspired some of his greatest work up to date. And not to mention a friendship that neither of the men had anticipated. It was one thing when they were five and their mothers snuck away together on rainy days to go to cafes and forced their children to play with each other, and it was another when they, themselves, on rainy days, went to cafes together to suck on Cappucinos and Mochas and hard candies, all whist recalling the childhood examples of the moment they were experiencing. That in itself was a romanticism that carried over to Blaise's plays. There was nothing that Draco couldn't inspire him to write.

As a side note, Blaise also had the sexual mentality of a street hooker, and could be counted upon for always having another strange guy in his bed after a night of celebrating a play's release with some fire whiskey and body shots. Everything could be settled over body shots, you know?

But, most of all, Draco himself had changed the most. He was no longer the sad, lonely piece-of-follower-shit that he used to be. Oh, no. He was independent now. He loved life and lived to love, or some crap like that. He had definitely become BoHo, and if he wasn't at the play house, he could be found in his small studio, reading one of the many books that littered his place. After the Ministry deemed the Manor should be destroyed, Draco had tried his best to find the same books that his old library contained. He hardly had enough room for them, even though they were not his family's books, so they were in high stacks in his studio, starting from the floor, and reaching up to the ceiling. He used them to make walls in his place, so it was rather unlike a studio in fact. And the books he couldn't keep in his house? They were put into his vault at Gringotts, where over time they replaced the fortune that was taken from him. They were his new currency, and certainly just as valuable in his eyes. He had so many of them, and even though none of them were originally his to begin with, he had accumulated so many that it rivaled his former collection in the first place. They were his love.

Draco was a lot quieter, but still spoke his mind, and trusted almost no one, save his small cluster of friends. He was still proud and conceited, but somehow managed to add grace to the equation. And most of all, he was ethereally beautiful. Gorgeous, even. That pissed off a lot of people. Cared less. Being beautiful, he mused, was fair. Everything else had been stolen from him. He wasn't sure if he had anything else besides his contacts. There was nothing else that was intristically his. And his purity was long gone. Blood and other. It meant nothing who he used to be.

So, he stared at himself in the mirror of his vanity. Why was he paler than usual? Ah, that's right. Evil dictator, and creepily sweet Potter was going to watch the play. He wanted nothing more at the moment to Seek Asylum of his own. Then Blaise's handsome coffee-with-milk complexion popped up behind the mopey boy. Draco looked up, and released the bottle of cologne he didn't realize he was squeezing to death.

"Draco, darling, are you alright? You look a fright!" Blaise's cheesy sweetness only made Draco's stomach clench in remembrance of Harry.

"Blaise... Harry Potter is here. He's here Blaise. He's here and he's gonna see the play. He approached me outside, and...and.."

Blaise noticeably paled, going more milk than coffee. "He...He's... really?" It was too hard to believe that HE, of all people, would be attending the play. Worst of all, didn't that mean they were found out? They were no longer hidden, especially if the Dark Lord himself came to them and not a Death Eater. They were in deep shit.

Draco only nodded, and Blaise pulled away to address the rest of his cast members. "Listen up, everyone! Shut the hell up and listen! Harry Potter-THE Harry Potter- will be on the premises this evening to see the show. If anyone, ANYONE fucks up, it'll be more than their life's worth, you hear me?!"

There was an audible shock reverberating backstage. Reira, Ferris, and Jacques all faltered and seemed lost in fear, not unlike the way that Draco felt moments earlier when he was in the company of the man in question.

Harry was comfortably seated in a Prince's box so he would have the best vantage point in the play house. Although this was an amateur actors theater that normally didn't do shit special for their guests, Blaise had seen to it that Harry was attended to, served champagne, and the like. He wasn't gonna mess up this moment, because it was, quite literally, a choice between life and death.

And when everything went perfectly, and Draco acted better than normal, Blaise almost cried. Harry was so fucking pissed. In his mind he was just waiting for his blonde former nemesis to stutter or fall off stage. He was flawless, goddammit! and he shone, like some godawful beacon! Harry was hating him more with every second. Hated the way he sibilated his words, or moved his body with the timing of the audience's applause. What the shit was that about? He was just sooo cute, huh? Harry hesitated after he found his hand in his pocket clenching his wand. Later. Yes. Later. There were other facets of his murder plan that hadn't even come to light yet. Finding Draco, who made it all too easy, the git, was the first step. He was going to let his plan thrive, too. See if there was indeed a flat over the theater.

After the show, Harry had no qualms walking backstage. He saw Draco, sitting on his vanity with his feet on the chair, makeup being washed off by the leading lady, whom Harry noticed in the playbook was called Reira. In her left hand she held a small soft cloth that she was wiping the boy's face with. When she noticed Harry with her peripherals, she froze. Draco opened his eyes.

"You did good, Malfoy. Really good, in fact. I'm surprised." Harry said coolly. Reira could be classified as catatonic at that moment. She said nothing. Moved none. Just stood there. Harry narrowed his eyes at her. Draco was his, and he was gonna have his time with him. Waving his hand in a dismissive manner, he said, "Out of my way, you biddie. I want to talk to Draco alone."

Reira almost glared, but left when Draco nodded at her that he'd be fine.

"That's not a nice way to treat my friends." He piped up.

"And your indolence is not a nice way to treat the ruler of this world."

Draco turned a violent pink. Harry pretended not to notice the flush. It wasn't well that he enjoyed it.

"Sorry." Draco mumbled softly. Harry shrugged.

"No matter. Join me for a drink, then."

"Wha-what? A drink?"

"Yes, Malfoy, a drink. I assume you are familiar with the concept. Meet me outside after you change. I know a nice lounge we can go to. Pretty upscale, but that is your preference, am I right?"

The boy blushed again. "Anywhere is fine. I just don't know why you're asking me to drinks.."  
Harry laughed. "You dolt!" He teased, which made Draco's skin crawl. "Obviously I wan't to have a chat with you."

Harry inched closer. No one could ignore how menacingly slow he moved. Full of purpose. The Lord loomed at the crew and cast whose eyes were glued to him. He smiled and put his hand on Draco's shoulder. The blonde nearly flew into his vanity's mirror.

"Okay," Draco said, rubbing the spot where Harry had just touched him. "I'll meet you outside."

Harry grinned widely. "Good."

At the lounge, they both ordered fire whiskey. More like Harry ordered them both fire whiskey and Draco let him. The place was warm and radiating a soft red glow. The background noise was pleasantly comforting, too.

None of it made a difference, Draco was chilled to the core by the gaze Harry had affixed to him.

Harry started, seeing as Draco was quiet, "You were good. In the play, I mean. Those women were right. Well, at least one of them was. You really are all the talent in those shows."

"Blaise is a fantastic playwright, you know."

"Indeed. But the roles are so obviously written with you in mind."

"Um... thank you... I guess."

"No, you don't guess. If I compliment you, it's a good thing. Means I don't want you dead for your betrayal." No it doesn't.

Draco shifted into the patent leather booth and sighed moodily. Finally, he met Harry's gaze. "What do you want from me?" He muttered.

"I could have anything in the world. What makes you think I'd want anything from you? Aren't you broke? Aren't you living in some wannabe squat? Do you even have friends other than Blaise? You have nothing that I want. Except your time. I want that, evidently."

"Why my time?"

"That's all you have to offer me."

"No, I mean, why _my_ time?"

"Who knows? You're cute." He took pleasure in the reaction, in which the blonde gazed at him, then quickly looked away, like someone with a crush in school. Aha! Draco liked to be told he was cute! He liked the attention. Some things could just be counted upon to never change.

"Do you, you know, want me for what the Dark Lord wanted me for?"

Harry grunted, "And what, pray tell, was that?"

"Well, he had heard that my mum was a Veela. So, naturally he believed that crap rumor and supposed I could give him worthy..._heirs_."

"So, male Veela can have kids then?"

"Yes, but not me. I'm not a Veela."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm not!"

"Sure you're not. I believe you, Malfoy."

"No you don't!"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, I mean no! I don't know! Does it?"

"Nope." Then the conversation ended, with Harry inwardly furious at Voldemort. That's why Malfoy was so precious to him? So he could have inbred fuckers to rule the world, like some fucked up royalty line? It would make sense. Voldemort was going to pay for this when Harry went back to the mansion. He may have hated Draco, but somewhere in his mind, he began to think of the blonde as his property, and no one else's. No one, and he meant this, was going to touch HIS charge. Draco was his.

After another silence, Draco started to hum "Aux Champs-Elysees" to himself. Harry eyed him. Draco was so... so... Hmmm.

"Malfoy, is there an apartment over the theater?"

"How do you know that?"

Laugh. "I want to rent it, I'll need a place to stay while I'm in Paris, and I plan to be here for a long time."

"Maybe then you'd like something better? It's more like a bachelor pad than a real house."

"My mind is made up. I want the theater's apartment. Something tells me it would be a good thing for me."

"Oh?" Said Draco.

"Help me get it." And it wasn't a request.

Draco nodded. "Okay. I'll talk to the manager for you. All he cares about is money, and I'm sure that you have enough of that."

Harry smiled. And guess what? So did Draco. Which made Harry smile more. He was getting to him!

By the end of the night, Harry went home knowing that he was deep into making his vendetta plan a reality! He had cleared away so many steps, and was very pleased with himself. Tonight, the newest addition to the plan: Make Voldemort pay for his treatment of Draco. No one had the privilege of tormenting the boy. Only him. Plus that meant that Ole' Voldie had lied to him about his plans with the Death Eaters. Guess maybe he forgot the detail about believing the Malfoys were Veela. No matter. Harry would fix this problem before he moved on with the rest of plotting.

He thought about Draco as he walked up to his mansion, having Apparated some distance away from the house. And when he licked his lips and entered the foyer, he was surprised that he had "Aux Champs-Elysees" stuck in his head, and had been humming the song since he said farewell to his charge.


End file.
